


Collecting Names

by orphan_account



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: But he's gorgeous, GUYS, He's a dumb stupid idiot, I hate that they made the characters 16, I started watching Outer Banks, I truly recommend, I'M IN LOVE, IT - Freeform, JJ is so fucking hot, Like they all look like 20 year olds, M/M, and also, and let me tell you, but anyway, like fr, the show is amazing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They're young, and they're beautiful, and the world is on fire.OR: Five moments from The Song of Achilles that I have decided to write into a modern AU.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus
Comments: 21
Kudos: 75





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! First off, let me say that I have NOT abandoned Memory Lane. I 100% plan to continue writing and finishing that fic within the next few months or so; it's just on the back-burner for now. I'm writing this because I'm fighting an intense writer's block and decided to try something new.
> 
> As the summary indicates, this fic translates five moments from TSOA into modern society. Because why not?
> 
> Also: it's from Achilles' perspective (another something-new).

Surprise.

That is the first thing I feel, when I see him. He catches my eye because he is littler than the other boys, tall enough but frail, and his knobby knees look like they might snap when he walks. He does not see while I examine him, his curly russet hair, darker skin, small nose and big, frightened eyes curtained with thick lashes. He is weak, and he does not fit in with the other boys, and it is painfully obvious to him. And me.

The other boys stay away from him, whispering words like _murderer_ and _evil_. He does not look evil to me- he just looks sad- but I do not approach him anyway.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

Dinner upon the night of his arrival is a cacophony of noise, like always. Forks clattering on plates and bickering over the last piece of bread and chatter, all of it directed at me, as eager faces turn to mine in hopes that theirs have caught my attention. The buzzing of noise thrums in my head; it is difficult to focus on what anyone is saying, and it is even more difficult to see past the overenthusiastic, hopeful smiles and the eyes that fall flat when I turn my head. It has become boring, the attempts to impress me. They are rodents, groveling at my feet for attention.

That is incorrect. They do not want me; they want Achilles. Just Achilles.

Achilles is fast and beautiful and smart and talented and perfect, and I am lonely. 

The boy is lonely, too. I watch him from the corner of my eye. He is sitting at the edge of the table, his chair distanced from its neighbor, turning over his food with a fork and trying to disappear.

He looks up. Over, at me.

I feel his gaze like the burning glare of the sun. Instinctively, I sit more rigidly in my seat, and I allow myself to smile back at the other boys, just so he thinks I’m not paying attention. So he knows it’s okay, to look. It is strange; I am used to being looked at. The gazes of others have faded in effect to the point where I do not even notice. But his eyes must be sunbeams- I can feel them so acutely that I almost want to hide.

A minute or so passes, and he has looked long enough, unabated. I lift my head and glance over at him; I cannot help the grin that spreads across my face at the comical widening of his eyes, the way he ducks his head and stares fervently down at his untouched plate. The buzzing conversation around me dims as I take my turn looking, and I do not miss the reddening of his ears as my eyes probe him.

I catch his name later, from one of the other boys. _Patroclus._

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

Sunlight splinters over the ground, shards of light piercing a clouded sky. Cool wind dances over my skin as I run, sprint, fly across the beach. The smell of the ocean cleanses the humid air, and the rhythmic swelling of the tide over the sand breaks the gentle morning stillness.

Golden rays of light echo across the ocean surface. They look like diamonds.

I run. It feels more like flying- like I am chasing the horizon, beating invisible wings against the wind.

When I return for my run, later, my hair is wild and flowing behind me, and my lungs are swollen with ocean breeze. My skin is slicked with sweat, and my mind goes to the punching bags in the gym. Mother says I will be the best boxer of all time. I wouldn’t know- she doesn’t want me to fight with others- but I am impossibly quick and my punches have sent punching bags leaving dents in the wall.

I walk down the halls absentmindedly (it is a large house; there are many), wondering how long I’ll hit for today, until I hear arguing from one of the rooms.

“...is missing from his lessons,” spits our tutor, Marcus, who teaches the boys while they are under my father’s care.

It is my father himself who answers. “Which one, again?” he asks tiredly.

“The new boy,” Marcus sneers. “The small one.”

“Well, he can’t hide forever,” my father says tiredly. “He’ll come back around lunch, and you’ll just have to punish him then.”

The rest of the conversation is cut off as I turn and walk briskly through the halls. Marcus is a bitter man whose idea of a punishment is to crack a paddle over the boys’ backs until they beg him to stop. I imagine him doing it to Patroclus, but, in my mind, he is not more than one swat in when Patroclus’ frail body breaks in two.

So I scour the first floor. I look in all the rooms- the dining hall, the lounge, the parlor, the library, even my father’s study- but come up short, so I go to the second floor. Repeat the routine. I even look in my own bedroom; nothing. I’m about to give up- it’s only ten minutes to lunchtime- when I hear a quiet rustling from the closet where we keep medicine and bathroom towels. I open the door slowly, so as not to startle him if he’s the one inside.

He is.

His tiny body is folded up in the corner of the closet, all of his limbs pulled in close to his chest, and his eyes are huge and fearful as he lifts his head.

I do not know what to say, for a moment.

Then: “They’re going to punish you. For skipping your lessons.”

He nods to himself, like he expected it. “Okay.”

I frown. ‘Okay’? “What are you doing in here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, they’re going to punish you,” I say again, incredulously.

His face is twisted bitterly when he looks up. While I am struck, having never been the recipient of such distaste, I am also intrigued; no one has ever had the gall to send distasteful expressions in my direction in the first place. It is a strange expression, especially on such gentle features.

“You’re his _son_ ,” he says, coldly. The word is almost venemous, in his mouth; it is almost an insult. “Just tell him not to do it.”

I blink. No one has ever spoken to me this way, either. I do not know what to make of it.

“I can’t,” I finally say.

He shrugs. “Fine.”

 _This whole thing is ridiculous_ , I think. Why does he not seem to care? I have searched for him, tirelessly, for an hour, to warn him of what will happen. Yet he does nothing but shrink back further into the corner, averting his eyes from me, further and further back until the shadows almost swallow him whole.

“You have no excuse, then?” I hear myself ask.

“No.” The word comes out flat and dull, a signal of defeat.

He is glass, and Marcus’ paddle will shatter him. Marcus always hits harder, when it comes to the smaller boys- an exertion of power, a revelation in the little resistance he is offered. It is sickening to me, but, until now, I have had no power to stop it. I crouch down to look at little Patroclus, all the way in the back of the closet. His brown eyes are glowing in the din like rhinestones, and I hear him inhale softly. Something strange comes over me for a moment, and I resist the urge to reach for his hand.

I am impulsive, and I am Achilles, and I have decided what I am going to do.

“Come with me,” I say.


	2. Pelion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is four times the size of my usuals; woohoo!
> 
> It's sort of choppy (it's not just ONE moment, tbh), but I'm overally pretty excited about it. The main part I focus on is honestly more of a throwaway line in TSOA, but that's because the novel is written from Pat's POV, so I figured this moment would've been a lot more significant had it been from Achilles'. Sorta angsty, but I had a lot of fun with it!
> 
> No, I don't write about _that_ scene. Both because this chapter was too long already and I just liked how it was, and because I honestly just didn't want to touch how Madeline Miller wrote it. It was lovely enough on it's own in TSOA.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!! I hope everyone's doing well!

Relief.

That is the first thing I feel, when I see him. Mind-numbing, swelling relief.

Relief, mingled with joy.

_He followed me. He followed me, here._

I have never felt such crushing happiness in my entire life, I think. I wonder if it will swallow me whole.

_He followed me._

A leaf crunches beneath my feet as I shift over the forest floor, and he tenses. A smile unfurls across my face as he looks around cautiously, and then-

I pin him to the ground beneath my knees- _careful, don’t hurt him_ \- and place my hands on either side of him and I cannot stop smiling because he’s here with me and I feel like I could sprint the length of an ocean-

“This is the reason you had not arrived yet, then?” The man who I assume to be Chiron steps out from the trees, and I am immediately struck by how massive he is; his shadow falls across the ground, spilling like tar over the earth, and then he is towering over us, a huge block of muscle and brute strength and cannonball arms. He is the one my mother brought me to see; he is the one who I am supposed to learn under, in order to build a boxing career for myself and even fight professionally. But he is not a teacher yet. He is a man waiting for an answer.

I nod. “Yes, sir. I apologize- I didn't mean to keep you waiting. I am grateful to be your student.” Beneath my knees, Patroclus is shifting, pressing his face into the ground. I gently lower myself off of him, and he scrambles to his feet. His ears are flushed with red, and his chest is heaving, clothes wet and clinging to him from having run so far. Pride swells inside of me. He ran, all this way. He ran to find me. My face almost hurts from smiling; I was worried I would never see him again.

Chiron nods. His sharp, scarred face is impassive as he turns to Patroclus, who seems to curl into himself under attention. “What is your name?”

Patroclus swallows and stumbles a little, unsteady on sore feet. “Patroclus, sir.” His voice is quiet and trembling. He is afraid he is about to be sent back. He has been afraid of being told to leave his entire life, afraid of being told he is not good enough. Seeing him like this- it becomes an effort not to comfort him, and I resist the urge with difficulty, knowing it would only embarrass him in front of Chiron.

The enormous man pauses for a moment, considering. His dark eyes survey Patroclus, whose own gaze flickers to the ground, and the silence presses down on me like a tangible weight. I do not know what I will do if he is sent back. I do not think I could leave him, even for the opportunity to learn under a professional. He’s _Patroclus_ , after all.

My worries are silenced as Chiron finally nods. “Come.”

We begin to walk. My heart is thundering in my chest, I am so happy. Beside me, Patroclus is still shaking a little. I turn to face him and smile, letting him know that _I’m glad you’re here, I’m glad you followed me_. Assured, he breathes out, and a small grin graces his own lips. 

The trees are thick around us. The morning is cut to pieces as it streams in through the leafy green canopy above. All around us is green- there are emerald leaves and blossoming buds and pillows of dew-soaked moss carpeting stones, and the air here is fresh and thick with cool mountain breeze and the scent of flowers. Somewhere in the distance I hear the rushing of a stream. There is the whispering of branches, and there is the buzzing of insects, and there is the gushing of water over stonebed, yet there is a strange silence pressing down upon us. It feels- peaceful. Like this is our own little corner of the world, cut away from other people and the business of living.

It feels _liberating_.

But best of all is the look on Patroclus’ face. The widening of his eyes, the little exhale between parted lips, the way his breath catches in his throat as he looks around. It makes me want to take his hand. Lace his fingers through my own, rub circles across his knuckles. I am finding that I have the urge to do this a lot.

“I am happy you’re here,” I whisper, just so he knows. The smile he gives me in response makes everything worth it.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

If I thought I was happy in Phthia, it is nothing compared to how I feel now. There is a joy so profound that I feel like I’m choking on it sometimes; I feel like my heart will explode with the intensity of this crazy happiness. I feel it bubbling up inside me, filling me to the brim, until it threatens to gush out of me like liquid sunshine. The days seem bright and endless, an infinite sea of smiles and laughter and Pelion. Sometimes it’s so overwhelming that my mind almost strains itself thinking about it.

I train. Chiron sees to it that I am bent with exhaustion by sunset. He himself does not fight me- older and retired as he is- but he finds ways to push me nonetheless. I run for miles, sprinting across sloped terrain; I am made to lift heavy weights and hit the punching bag until my arms fall off. It is more than him pushing me- I am made to push myself. I have never been challenged in this way before, and soon I feel my body hardening like stone, muscles tightening and shaping under Chiron’s instruction. I feel like I could fight a lion sometimes.

But I do not know if that is because of training or Patroclus.

At first, I was worried he wouldn’t have anything to do. It was something that gnawed at me the first day as we hiked up the mountainside together- that Chiron would have nothing to teach him, that he would get bored passing time while I trained. I imagined that one day I would return from my morning run to find him packing, and he would look up at me and explain that he did not wish to waste his life away with me here. He would sling his bag over his shoulder and walk out of my life forever.

But this could not have been further than the truth. Patroclus quickly found an interest in medicine, and Chiron has been sharing his extensive knowledge of healing herbs and practices with him while I exercise. He is just as busy as I am- studying while I box, familiarizing himself with anatomy and the inner workings of the human body while I familiarize myself with how best to weaken it. He amazes me every day with his vast intelligence. Having assured him that he is more than welcome here, he seems just as happy as I am, and his smiles are countless and so bright they make me dizzy.

In our free time together, we explore the woods. We are young gods, mapping out and claiming our little piece of the world, marking the earth with our footprints and setting the sky ablaze with our joy. We swim in the ravine. We race through the brush. We climb the trees and pluck figs from their branches. We watch the world shift through the seasons, painting with the changing colors and tasting the dipping breeze. The first time I have ever seen snow is while we are on Pelion.

“It’s so soft,” Patroclus had marveled, as he planted his palms down upon the crisp white surface.

It is not just the days. We shoved our cots next to each other in our shared room and stare up through the roof window at night. Pointing out the constellations- God, I had not known there to be so many stars, not in all the universe- and laughing quietly and whispering to one another our favorite parts of the day-

_Playing in the stream-_

_Climbing the rocks by the waterfall-_

_Hunting for rabbits-_

-and it is perfect, so perfect.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

I am noticing things.

Changes. We are changing.

Our bodies are stretching out like rolled clay. I measure myself in the changes I see in Patroclus- the widening of his shoulders, the sudden protrusion of his Adam’s apple, the sharpening of his jawline as his face loses its softness. He is still thin, yes- I have not yet overcome my fear that his wiry limbs will snap in two while we are climbing or play-fighting- but now there is muscle. His chest is broader; his legs are sharply lined; his back flexes while we swim. His hair is longer, too- an untamed mess of walnut curls, bangs that fall into his face and hide his eyes when he dips his head.

My thoughts begin to wander. Sometimes, while we are together, I look at him and into his wide brown eyes and think, _Mine. I want you to be mine forever._

It is foolishness, and I am a coward. I am afraid when it comes to him. I stare at his lips, and I think of pressing mine to them, and I think of my mother. I think of what she would do if she found out about us. And it is that thought- what she would do to him, what she would do to separate us- that keeps me at bay.

He still feels mine, though.

I don’t stop wondering what his lips taste like. I don’t stop wondering how his body would feel beneath my own. I don’t stop wondering what would he would look like if I kissed his jawline, his throat, his chest, below-

It is foolishness, but I can’t stop _thinking_ about him.

He is beautiful. I know he does not see himself that way. I didn’t even know a boy could be beautiful. “Handsome” is the word most use. But when it comes to Patroclus, everything about him- from the soft spray of freckles sprinkling his nose to his long lashes to his gentleness- I look at him, and I think, _How could you see yourself as anything but lovely?_

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

The end of the world comes one day.

We are hiking through the woods when it happens. Buds are exploding into huge blossoms all around us as spring settles upon Pelion. Insects are humming. Birds are chattering away in the high shelves of the trees, and I am vaguely reminded of mealtimes in Phthia, of the boys all vying for my attention, cracking jokes or speaking of their athleticism. I hum to myself a little as I walk through the trees, mapping out the area in my mind for future ventures.

To my left is a deep gorge. I approach and see that it is a ravine, carved into the earth out of stone and roots. The edges slope down sharply to hit a base of jagged rocks and a stream of trickling water.

Then there is a heavy rustling somewhere close by. A boar, maybe? A deer? Chiron would be so impressed if I could snare it the way he’d taught us- maybe he’d even let me skip training tomorrow.

From behind me, there is a gasp and a shout.

My heart drops to my stomach; I turn around-

He’s not there. He’s not there. The flat, solid ground upon which he stood seconds ago is now a wedge in the earth that connects itself to the edge of the ravine.

_“Patroclus!”_

_No no no NO-_

Not a full second passes and I am hurtling down the ravine, throwing my body down the stone wall and landing with a jolt on a rock bed. A horrible scream threatens to burst up through my chest and crack open the silence, and I so narrowly manage to bite it back as I whirl around, wildly looking for him, and the panic is so terrible that I feel like I am choking, I feel it seeping through my veins like lead-

All I can think of are the sharp rocks. If he landed- if he landed on his head-

 _"Patroclus!”_ I cry out hoarsely.

My heart is leaping back up into my throat. I am about to cry his name again- _where is he, where is Patroclus_ \- when I turn and there he is, curled up on a rock, trembling as the stream floods up around his crumpled form.

“Achilles,” he whimpers.

I am there in an instant, and my eyes are sweeping over him, wide and searching as I check him for injuries. My hands are dancing uselessly over his body, and I cannot seem to hold them still for the life of me.

“Are you hurt? Are you hurt?!” I manage, and the words pour out of me like water. His body is shaking- _oh God, he’s shaking_ \- and I suddenly notice that his left arm is bent at a sickening angle, and that the skin is purple and bloody. My stomach drops.

Patroclus nods his head quickly, face screwed up in pain, and my heart is jumping out of my chest. He’s crying, I realize. Another wave of panic hits me like an iron punch to the stomach; I have never seen him cry before.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” I croak. I want him to stop crying. I _need_ him to stop crying. The sound of his despair is so crushingly painful that I feel physically ill.

I gently scoop him up in my arms, careful not to touch his injured arm, and I hold him against my chest as I sprint back through the ravine until the ground evens out. I did not see anything wrong with his legs, but I do not want to take any chances. He is not half as fast as me, either, and I need to get him back to Chiron as soon as possible. In my arms, his body is convulsing with tiny, silent sobs, and I squeeze him closer to me and whisper soft things to him as I take off through the trees.

_No one dies from a broken arm- he's fine-_

“Shhh,” I say. It is all I can manage. My heartbeat is roaring in my ears like a machine.

_Chiron can fix him Chiron can fix him Chiron can fix him-_

The world around us is a blur of greens and browns as I fly through the trees, feet barely touching the ground. The branches whip my face and snag my clothes, and some of the sharper ones slice small cuts in my skin. I do not care. I barely even notice.

My muscles are burning like they are on fire, and my chest is collapsing. My eyes sting with the pure effort of how hard I am running- each step is like a jolt up through my body, a punch that reverberates up from my heels to my chest. I have never in my life moved this fast before, and I wonder if my heart will give out before I make it back.

Patroclus cries out. “I'm sorry," I try. He just nods.

It is agonizing. I am trying so so hard not to hurt him, but I do not know the full extent of his injuries, and some degree of caution must be sacrificed to speed in my race back. God, the journey back has never taken this excruciatingly long.

Patroclus twists in pain, clutching at his swollen arm. I glance down briefly and see that his hands and knees are sliced open. The sight of his blood registers in my brain like an electric shock, and a burst of heat ripples out from the top of my skull down to my feet.

I almost choke on my relief when I finally see Chiron’s cabin. I barely refrain from kicking down the door.

“Chiron!” I shout. “Chiron, come quick!”

The door swings open. Chiron steps out, and his gaze immediately drops to the boy crumpled in my arms, quivering in pain. His eyes widen in recognition.

“Bring him inside,” he orders.

Patroclus is a mess, when I gently lower him into a chair inside. “I don’t- I didn’t mean-” he is gasping, almost sobbing, as he clutches at his arm. The arm itself is hanging loosely from his shoulder, the bone of his forearm nearly opening up the skin. All over his bruised body are cuts and gashes.

I am dizzy. I don’t think it’s from the run. Looking at his face, broken down in pain, eyes squeezed shut tight with the effort not to cry anymore- it does something to me. It’s like- a knife is twisting through my stomach. Like I’m being gutted. Vomit suddenly rises in my throat-

“Achilles, get me a stick,” Chiron instructs me. “A thick one, if you can.”

Eager to get out of the stifling room but scared to leave Patroclus, I freeze.

“Quickly!”

I hop to my feet and race out through the door. I almost don’t feel my body as I spin around in the clearing, scanning the ground.

_It’s- it’s just his arm-_

So far as I _know_ , it’s just his arm. But I did not get a good look at him- there could be something else- something even worse. The terror I felt when I did not know if he was alive at all, right after he first fell, when all I could think of were those rocks, has not yet left me. I steady myself against a tree, telling myself: he’s okay he’s okay he is okay because he’s Patroclus, he’s Patroclus and he would never ever leave me, not even if the world was ending, and certainly not because of a fall down some stupid ravine.

When I finally feel the ground beneath me steady, I seize the first stick I can find and hurry back inside.

Chiron has moved Patroclus to the floor. He takes the stick from me and sets it between Patroclus’ teeth, and a block of ice slides down into my stomach as I realize what it’s for.

“Achilles, hold him down,” Chiron mutters.

I set my hands on Patroclus’ shoulders. He looks up at me with big, scared eyes. Then he takes my hand.

“Patroclus,” I whisper. His body relaxes a little.

Chiron takes his upper arm delicately. “One-”

“Wait,” I interject, voice strained. “Don’t bones heal themselves?”

“I’ll put the arm in a sling, yes, but his shoulder is dislocated as well. That I can fix myself.”

Patroclus inhales sharply. I do the same.

“One.”

He’s Patroclus, and he will be okay. He will be fine.

“Two.”

He's going to be completely fine.

“Three.”

There’s a sickening pop. A wrenched scream. Fingers crushing mine. For a brief moment, a blinding, blood-curdling rage surges up within me, and I am seconds away from punching Chiron in the gut. No, that is not it. I want to murder him. I want to gouge out his eyes. I want to crush his windpipe, rip out his goddamn throat-

But then my hand is released, and Patroclus is easing back down to the floor. He offers a weak smile up at me. “That feels better,” he says, and the world is no longer ending.

That night, as we lie in bed and count the stars, I think about the smile he gave me. The way everything instantly seemed to repair itself as soon as he was okay. That same urge wells up inside me, the same one I always feel, but this time I do not repress it. I lace my fingers through his. A moment passes, and he squeezes my hand.

 _Mine_ , I think. _You are mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT (6/8): Hey guys, sorry it's a little late! I'm super packed this week and haven't had too much time to write. The 3rd chapter will probably be up anywhere from Wednesday-Friday! ;)


	3. Scyros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damnnn this one is long for me.
> 
> Sorry if it seems like it sort of drags on at the beginning; I weirdly enjoy writing moments that are mentioned but aren't actually in the book. It does pick up though, and I'm super happy with how it turned out (even if it's choppy at parts)!
> 
> I also feel the need to apologize in that it's a week late. I swear, I am _not_ losing motivation to write at all; I am just as excited about this story as I was in Chapter 1! I was just completely swamped the past two weeks and haven't found much time to wrap it all up. As a result of this, the last 2 updates will come every 1-2 weeks, but rest assured in that I hope they won’t take longer than that, and that they will likely continue the trend of being posted on Wednesdays.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy! Kudos and comments mean the world!

Hatred.

It is a foreign thing to me. I am so unfamiliar with the feeling that I almost do not know how to identify it, but then, what else would it be? Surely indifference or distaste isn’t this potent. If this isn’t hatred, I am almost afraid of how I will feel when I _truly_ hate someone. But I think that’s what it is. I think I hate her.

Looking at her makes my stomach twist. When she smiles I feel nothing- no remote sense of compassion, no attraction, no urge to return the gesture. She touches me, and I suppress the urge to strike her, barely reigning in the heat that simmers in my blood. She has just reached womanhood, yet I look at her and see a child- a spoiled, pampered brat.

“Deidameia,” I say tightly.

Even the sunrise pouring in through the windows, lighting up her skin with a soft yellow glow, is powerless in making her more attractive. It’s not her face, exactly; she really is pretty, from her ivory skin to her slight figure to her soft features. But that is about where it ends, in terms of beauty. She could be wearing a crown, and I still would see nothing but another insect buzzing around for my attention. For Achilles’ attention.

I realize how much I had forgotten what it felt like. To be the boy behind the mask again.

A smile worms its way across her face. She would be prettier, I think, if she smiled less. “Achilles. Should we go to breakfast, then? My father is waiting for us in the dining room.”

I frown; I cannot very well say no. She turns and I reluctantly follow, her long skirt sweeping over the floor.

“Can you believe we’re getting married tonight?” she warbles. She lifts her hand and examines the giant diamond sitting atop her ring finger. “I’m so excited!”

 _Is the wedding really tonight?_ I wonder, faintly surprised.

“You should come watch me dance today, Achilles,” Deidameia follows, talking more to the air than to me.

 _The way you say my name is wrong_ , I think bitterly, staring at my shoes as I trudge along. I hate how she says it. It sounds possessive. Like she is branding me as her own, stamping herself in even my name so that I am hers, hers, hers. She glances over her shoulder as I trail behind and flashes me a _dazzling_ smile. It’s just so _dazzling_. She’s so _pretty_ and _beautiful_ and _dazzling_ , just _wonderful_ , and I ponder, briefly, what she would look like if I pushed her down a flight of stairs.

“Hurry up!” she croons. “I’m famished.”

“I’m hurrying,” I say through gritted teeth, mouth twisted into something that probably looks like more of a snarl than a smile.

I don’t hurry. I sigh, and my gaze drifts over to the windows.

It’s particularly painful in that Scyros really is beautiful. Were I here with the right company, I can’t imagine that I could ever feel this miserable. Through the wide windows, an ethereally blue sky is lit up with a shower of sunlight. Streaks of orange and pink paint the bellies of puffy clouds. The slate of sun-stricken ocean below is a mirror of pastel color, a rainbow pane extending out to the horizon. Surrounding the house (although it is less of a house than a mansion, less of a mansion than a castle) is a rolling field of grass, rippling out to a rocky precipice. My legs itch; my knuckles flex. I am dying to feel the air in my lungs and the wind in my hair.

I feel like a caged animal. No fighting. No running.

“You are not here for that,” Mother had said. “You are here to be married. It is for your career, anyway.”

“Yes, but I-”

“Marrying a famous dancer will put your name out there. Agents will hear of you. The publicity could get you enough attention to put you in a versatile position- clubs across the country will be asking to have you.”

“I _know_ , but what about-”

“Achilles. That boy isn’t coming. How would your fiance feel if she knew you were associated with him? The marriage would be off.” She had sighed, then. “I am here to help you. Let me help, and keep... _him_ … out of this.”

I had frowned, then. “After the wedding, you will contact _Patroclus_ and tell him where to find me. Or I’m not marrying her.”

A long moment passed. Then: “Fine.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. God, I miss him.

His absence is a cavity. It is a gaping hole in my chest, growing every moment that he is not here, and soon there are days when I don’t even feel physically whole anymore. I look down and am surprised when I see that there is not a huge crater in my body. Confused that, yes, I still have a heart. Lungs. Kidneys. I had not realized how much of me was him until, suddenly, he wasn’t there anymore. _After the wedding_ , I think hotly. _You’ll see him again._

If he still wants me.

“No,” I breathe, pushing that thought away. He will still want me. He will understand. It is not my fault that I am here. I do not want Deidameia. Mother is the one who took me away from him. It is not my fault. It cannot be my fault.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

The wedding ceremony is small, and outdoors. The maids have arranged rows of white chairs facing a small, flower-veiled altar. Pale pink petals line the walkway like scattered snowflakes.

My eyes are glued to the horizon, blazing with the residue of sunset. They strain against the fading light to see something- a boat, maybe- but there are only rolling waves and the glossy reflection of clouds.

Sometime after, we are in a bedroom. There are tangled bedsheets and discarded clothes and rocking bedframes.

I close my eyes and pretend that I am anywhere but here.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

The next day plods along, like all the rest; I almost forget that it is of any significance at all, that I am now married. I do not feel different, and I might have forgotten completely if it were not for the golden ring bound around my finger.

Little happens worth noting, this morning. I mostly drift through the halls, turning the opposite way whenever I hear footsteps or voices. It is almost like hide-and-seek. I peruse the corridors and stand still when I can, looking out through the gaping windows and watching summer befall Scyros. The fields are littered with clusters of bright flowers. In the light wind, white dandelions cling to their bonnets, and lilacs twirl in place, gyrating over the morning dewdrops.

Beyond the yard, the grass is overgrown with weeds, and my gaze catches on a lizard slithering its way through the tall stalks. It scampers atop a cracked rock and falls still. Its small head faces the jagged precipice, and the two of us watch together as the ocean spray bursts up and washes over the rocks. I imagine how nice the sun feels to the lizard, baking on that cracked rock.

Deidameia is at dance rehearsal now. She begged me to come watch her, but- for all her talent- I can’t help but feel completely, utterly bored. It is a funny thing, boredom; it feels so foreign to me. My mind catches on Pelion, and I hum louder.

I pass one of the maids in the bedrooms as I walk. She offers me a comforting smile. “I hear there will be a huge dinner tonight,” she says.

“Because of the wedding?” I ask detachedly.

“I think that’s part of it, but Lycomedes is hosting several guests as well. They’re arriving on a boat.”

“Ah.” I nod gratefully and carry on.

Guests? Could it be the agents Mother was talking about, here to scout me out and see if I’m all I’m advertised as? Or maybe extended family of the bride? It could just be paparazzi, I suppose- aside from her father’s enormous wealth, Deidameia has got a big enough name in the dance industry, and her marriage is interesting enough to be the headline of a tabloid.

From a room down the hall are voices calling out my name. Deidameia’s rehearsals must have ended. Sighing, I leisurely turn and enter the nearest guest bedroom, where I close the door and sit down on the bed. My thoughts first go to boxing. God, I am itching to fight; I’ve been tempted to provoke even the servants to get a punch out of them. With this thought comes that of running, and then they turn to the ocean, and then _him_ \- as they always do, and the ache in my chest intensifies.

I feel drained. I do not have much energy left, these days. When I’m with her, I’m angry; when I’m alone, I’m exhausted.

I raise my hand to look at the ring. It is a size too large and slips loosely over my knuckle, and the gold looks garish next to my bronzed skin. I turn it over and examine the smooth finishes, the way the light glints off the polished surface. The light source comes from outside- from the lighthouse on the cliff. Its beam is fixated upon a ship in the distance. It is difficult to tell much about the ship from this far away, but its silhouette is broad and dark against the cotton sky, and the hull slices quickly through glistening waters and leaves small white-caps in its wake. It is moving quickly.

If the guests are almost here, I had better get ready for dinner. I am just getting up when the door swings open and there is Deidameia, her face fixed in a pout and her arms crossed over her chest.

Her expression immediately softens when she sees me. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Achilles!”

Something in my stomach curdles. “Good thing you finally found me.”

If she notices the bite in my tone, she speaks nothing of it. She enters the room and takes my hand, and cold, spindly fingers dance over the ring. “Last night was so good,” she whispers, smiling down at her golden reflection. _A child. She is a child, pretending to be a woman._ “You were so good, Achilles.”

At least there is no doubt in my mind anymore. This is hatred.

Repulsed, I snatch my hand back. Hurt crosses over her features momentarily, but she recovers and plays it off as surprise. “I had better get ready for dinner,” I snarl. “I heard there will be guests.”

_Soon. Soon. Soon._

_Where are you?_

_Are you even coming anymore?_

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

The maid was right. It is an enormous dinner.

Large wooden tables have been lined up along the dining hall, and benches are pushed up against them to provide seating. Mountains of food sit atop the varnished wood, and the air is infused with an assortment of rich scents and perfumes. The maids and cooks bustle about to set out the meal, and Lycomedes, Deidameia’s father, watches carefully over the proceedings to ensure that the decor is fit for guests.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and find my place at the front table, watching as well-dressed people bustle to their seats, stumbling over long dresses and knocking into one another in their eagerness. There is the clatter of silverware on plates and the sound of bench legs scratching over the floor. And talking. There is so much talking that it is nearly impossible to focus on anything other than the thrum of conversation, pulsing throughout the hall.

I survey the sea of heads. There would be no real way of knowing which of them are guests from the ship, but I look anyway; maybe I am hoping for a sea captain’s hat or a pirate’s beard.

To my right, a chair is pushed back, and Lycomedes stands. He taps his knife against his glass. The conversations immediately subside, and shocking silence follows as he clears his throat. “I would like to thank you all for coming to celebrate my daughter’s wedding!” Clapping ripples throughout the audience, as well as a few cheers. “A special thanks to our special guests who arrived this afternoon.”

‘Guests’ doesn’t tell me anything I did not already know. I frown against my palm, spinning my fork over my fingers.

“I have a special surprise,” Lycomedes continues. He pauses a moment as if attempting to build suspense. “My daughter, Deidameia, has been working on a dance to perform for you all!”

Ah. So the guests are recruiters after all. Hopefully this is what Mother was telling me about; maybe they are here to scout for me too.

Classical music pours out from the hall, and Deidameia emerges, her team in tow. They are robed in beautiful cloth, and long hair is pinned up with sparkling sequins, and porcelain faces are bright with makeup. A smattering of applause echoes over the tables, and they begin to dance.

It is a pretty dance, I will not begrudge her that. The audience loses itself quickly in watching thin figures pirouette through the air, arching their backs and springing their legs apart. There is an intricacy to their movements, a preciseness that is almost reminiscent of boxing. They are careful where they set their feet. Careful of how long they pause. It is like watching glass dolls spin over a table, afraid of falling lest they shatter.

Deidameia tries to catch my eyes a few times. She casts me a shy smile over her shoulder.

When the dance is finally over, the audience enthusiastically applauds for them, but the acclamation is brief; it is late. Everyone is getting tired, eager to either go home and find their beds. Lycomedes sends his gratitude to everyone for coming to celebrate the newlyweds- it takes me a moment to realize that he is talking about me- and then the crowd begins to dissipate.

I do not look up for a while. I stare down at the designs on my plate- small rosebuds- and try to recall the smell of flowers blooming in the spring.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of russet.

I glance-

up.

My stomach swoops up and down. My fork slips out of my hand and falls to the floor.

It’s _him_.

Patroclus. He is here. He is here. He is _here_ -

I burst out of my seat, practically jumping over the table in my excitement. A smile cracks across his face as I leap- _God, I missed that_ \- but he can barely open his mouth before I tackle him. Immediately, I wrap my arms around his shoulders and bury my face in the crook of his neck and smile, and it is a good thing no one can see my face because I am certain I am grinning like a loon. Fizzy happiness is gushing up inside me like the tide and overflowing; it is like sparkling cider; I breathe in his smell and feel his warm hands on my back and hear his heart thudding against his chest and it is him, it is really, really _him_ -

I do not even know how to describe it. It is difficult to put words to the brightest joy on earth.

“Patroclus,” I breathe, and his name fits in my mouth like a puzzle piece.

“Achilles,” he laughs. The sound is like warm honey. Like bell chimes.

Deidameia hasn’t been saying my name wrong at all, I realize. Patroclus is just the only one who says it right.

“Achilles, what is the meaning of this?” Lycomedes asks from behind me, and it is only then that I notice Deidameia’s petulant wailing.

Reluctantly, I loosen my embrace on Patroclus, but I do not let go of his hand. His face is flushed with elation, and his lips are parted in a smile so sweet it takes physical restraint not to kiss him, to claim him right here. I squeeze his fingers and turn to face Lycomedes.

“Achilles!” Deidameia sobs. Her hair, so carefully pinned up, has come undone and now sits atop her head like a misshapen crown.

“I am leaving tomorrow,” I exclaim, before I even process what I am saying. Next to me, Patroclus beams like the sun, and my brain short-circuits as he breathes out a laugh.

Deidameia shrieks in shock. _“Achilles!”_

Lycomedes’ mouth has fallen open. He closes and opens it a few times, but no words come out. Finally: “You married my daughter, and now you’re leaving?”

Patroclus’ hand slips from mine. He looks at me, thunderstruck, and the heartbreak on his face cracks my chest open like a spear.

_Nononono I just got you back-_

“I-” I start.

“I’ll tell!” she snarls. Her eyes shine. “I will tell everyone! I’ll tell them that you married me and immediately left me to go screw some man-whore!”

My blood turns to ice. Anger sweeps through my skull and down my spine- _“man-whore”, I’ll kill her_ \- but dread overrides my rage, and I am paralyzed to the spot. An anchor has fallen on my chest and is crushing the air out of me; I cannot seem to breathe, cannot seem to steady myself, cannot cannot cannot- _why is she doing this-_

“No, you will not.”

I whirl around and there is Mother, standing in the doorway. Her face is stone in cold fury, and her skin is pale, almost drained in the waning light. “You will hold your tongue, or I will destroy everything you have worked toward your entire life. A word slips out, and your career will be over.”

Lycomedes staggers backward into a chair. I watch Deidameia’s face fall, watch as she stumbles over her feet and bumps into the table. Her features contort with shock and pain, and her lip quivers in fear. “But-”

Mother treads forward, and her wrath is a palpable thing up close, a darkness blossoming from within her. She towers over Deidameia, who cowers in her shadow, and leans down: “Do you understand?” Her mouth is twisted with repulsion. 

Deidameia wilts with fear. A thick, slow second passes before she whispers, “Fine.”

_Fine._

The tension seeps out of me, and I deflate. Patroclus’ shoulder against mine is the only thing keeping me steady at this point.

Mother finally turns away. She does not look at me as she spins around. “Achilles. There are recruiters here interested in you. We leave next week.” Deidameia bursts into tears again, and Lycomedes, still sitting down, buries his face in his hands.

I am free. One week, and I am free from this prison. I am about to whoop with joy, about to spin around and kiss Patroclus right there-

“I am pregnant!” Deidameia screeches. Her eyes are wild, hysterical, and her face is twisted with malice.

The world freezes for a moment. Or I do. I just stare at her. Dumbstruck.

_No._

“What?” I whisper.

Deidameia clutches at her stomach, twisting the fabric of the dress with her fingers. A horrible smile splits her face, and her glee is leaking through her grief. “I am! I am! I’m pregnant!”

Horror and disbelief sluice through me, and I wonder if I am going to be sick.

“No,” I say flatly. _No, there’s no way, there’s no possible way-_

“It’s true!” she screams triumphantly.

Beside me, Patroclus is white. He stumbles backward and turns around, knocking into a bench. “I- I just-” he grates out, and then he is striding through the tables, tripping over himself just to get away from me. I am choking with panic, watching my world crumble to pieces around me, because I just got him back and now he’s leaving, he’s leaving me, he’s going to walk out of my life forever, and my heart starts to splinter because _there is no plan without Patroclus-_

Then, for the first time in a long time, I am running.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

He is sitting on the rocky cliff when I finally find him. His arms are wrapped around his legs, which his head is buried between, and he does not look up at as I collapse beside him.

“Patroclus,” I gasp. My eyes are stinging. “I did not know- please don’t think that I would- it was my mother, she was the one who wanted-”

“How many times?” he asks hoarsely.

“What?”

He lifts his head, and his eyes are twin pools of heartbreak. “Well? How many times did you fuck her?”

I try to speak but cannot find my voice. I need him to stop _looking_ at me like that, like it is _my_ fault, like _I hurt him_. Finally, I manage “twice”, but the word is barely distinguishable; emotion is clogging my throat. God, I wish I could say more, I wish I could tell him that I hated it, I hated every fucking second of it-

Patroclus nods to himself, and something in him has died. He stares out at the sea, a tarry black soup beneath the night sky, and rests his chin on his arms.

"I only did it for you," I croak. "So my mother would tell you where I was."

The way Patroclus looks at me then- like I am a child. "She didn't," he says flatly. "She didn't tell me anything."

My tongue is sandpaper. I lean back on my palms for support, blinking rapidly. I feel like a fool. I feel like a naive, stupid fool. Of course. Why had I believed she would? She always hated him. I was just too desperate to see the truth.

"I did it for you," I repeat anyways. I don't know what else to say.

But his eyes say that he does not believe me. Oh God, he doesn’t believe me. “ _Please_ , Patroclus,” I say, and I do not care how pathetic I sound, falling apart in my desperation.

“Please what?”

I flinch at the sharpness of his voice; he has never spoken to me like this before. His eyes are glistening in the dark, and his gentle face has turned bitter in his anger. I swallow thickly. I just got him back, and I am scared out of my mind that I am about to lose him. Again.

How do I prove to him that it was not my fault? That he was all I could think about every waking moment of the day? That every morning without him in my arms punctured my heart anew? It is a sickly feeling, heartbreak- a parasite sitting at the bottom of your stomach, feeding itself on you. A noose, cutting off air. It is like falling onto concrete.

_Please don’t leave me._

_There is no plan without you in it._

“Please forgive me,” I choke out.

His eyes find my own in the darkness, and I wait on bated breath for a goodbye. Part of me knows he _should_ say goodbye, that this is toxic, that him forgiving me is almost as foolish as me believing Mother. But then, I do not know what I would do. I do not know if I would be able to let him go.

Then:

“There is nothing to forgive,” he whispers,

and I collapse against him.

Still trembling, I press a kiss of assurance to his temple, and he rests his head on my shoulder, and I wait for my heart to stop racing against my ribs. No. No, I would not be able to have let him go.

Together, we watch as the stars bleed through the darkness and rain down onto the sea. As the wind howls and waves batter the rocky shore, and the black sky spills over into the ocean. As the wet rocks shimmer with iridescent moonlight.

“Polaris,” Patroclus whispers, pointing.

I smile. “Canopus.”

His face is glowing in the starlight. A moment, and he turns to me seriously. “You know I would go with you. Wherever you go, to fight.”

“I know.” There is no plan, without him.

I take his hand again, bring it to my lips. It is nice to feel whole again.

**Author's Note:**

> Unrelated: I am in no way a Twenty One Pilots fan, but their new song, "Level of Concern", is honestly a solid bop and I have been listening nonstop. Highly recommend.
> 
> Comments and kudos mean the world!
> 
> I hope everyone's doing well :)


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